


missed call

by badacts



Category: All For the Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Hospitals, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 13:55:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7760383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badacts/pseuds/badacts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was one thing Nathan had always stood by, his personal code – if you were going to go after someone, you went after them.  Not their dog, not their parents, and definitely not their partner.  He might not have managed to teach that to his henchmen, but he clearly succeeded with his son.</p><p>That, and 'a head for an eye'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted from my [tumblr](http://badacts.tumblr.com/)

Stuart has voice mail, but his business mostly isn’t the sort where leaving messages is a good idea. That means it’s something of a surprise to come home to his phone blinking a ‘1’ on the kitchen bench. Enough that he looks twice, but not enough that he hesitates in pressing play.

“Consider this a courtesy call.”

Stuart hasn’t talked all that often to the owner of that voice, but he recognises it instantly. More because this time, Nathaniel sounds just like his father.

“If you have anything to do with Romero Malcolm, then cut ties before you lose your chance. He’s not going to be around that much longer,” Nathaniel says, the frozen kind of calm. “And hey. If you have anything to do with him being here, then this is a fucking warning.”

That’s it – the robot voice clicks back on to prompt him with his options. He selects to call back. It rings for a long time before it’s picked up.

“Hi, Uncle Stuart,” Nathaniel says, his voice so friendly that the comparison to his tone in his message is chilling. He sounds young in a way that the stoic, blunt child Stuart first met never did. It’s a warning in and of itself.

“I hope you asked the Lord for permission to do whatever it is you’re planning,” Stuart says, with the feeling that he’s stepping onto ice so thin it’s already cracked through.

Nathaniel laughs, an inappropriately bright noise over the phone. The boy’s mother was always serious when it came to business – Stuart doesn’t know where he picked up the irreverence. “I informed them. Ichirou knows he shouldn’t get in my way.”

An awfully casual way of speaking about the man who holds Nathaniel’s life in his hands. “Are you alright, Nathaniel?”

“Oh, _I’m_ fine. I wasn’t at home,” he replies. “Appearance requirements out of town. It’s written into my contract. Real pain the ass. Bet you can guess who _was_ there, though.”

Stuart can guess. “Is _he_ alright?”

Stuart has met Andrew Minyard. It was only once, but the experience was a memorable one. Nathaniel’s threats might be good, but the knives were a very convincing addition. Stuart can’t imagine how Romero could have got the drop on him, and how he got away afterwards.

“He will be,” Nathaniel replies, the too-nice tone finally dropping to show the steel underneath it. “But Malcolm came into my home and hurt him. I’m going to find him, and then I’m going to bury him.”

There was one thing Nathan had always stood by, his personal code – if you were going to go after someone, you went after _them_. Not their dog, not their parents, and definitely not their partner. He might not have managed to teach that to his henchmen, but he clearly succeeded with his son.

That, and _a head for an eye_.

“I didn’t have anything to do with this,” Stuart says, the hair rising on the back of his neck.

“I know,” Nathaniel replies. “If you did, I wouldn’t have bothered with the warning.”

The line clicks dead.


	2. Chapter 2

Neil fiddles with his tie again.  “I hate this.”

Laila, glamorous on his arm with her hair a silken flow down her back, smiles thinly.  “You’ve said.”

“Is that your polite way of telling me to shut up?” Neil asks, flicking her a look.  The glance she edges back at him tells him that yes, it is.  She would rather not be here tonight either.  Alvarez is seven months pregnant and, despite her own complaining about the perils of dealing with a pregnant person, his co-captain wants to be at home doing just that.

Neil pats her hand.  She snags another pair of glasses off of a circulating waiter’s tray, passing one over.  Sparkling grape juice – Neil barely drinks, and Laila gave up on it in solidarity alongside her wife.  Most people would probably use a glitzy event like this to break that promise, but not Laila.  She’s too busy looking at her phone every eight seconds.

After a moment, she shoves it back into her clutch and sighs.  “Come on.  Time to make nice.”

“You do ask a lot of me,” Neil replies under his breath, earning him a low laugh.  He respects most of his teammates, but he likes Laila.  She’s a good co-captain and a better goalie, and the subtle competition between her and Andrew for starting position is kind of hilarious.

They’re caught up in conversation with a few other players when a phone does go off.  Laila automatically reaches for hers, but it’s Neil’s, buzzing in his pocket.  He pulls it free, muttering half an excuse as he steps out of the circle.

“Andrew?” he asks.  If he sounds confused, it’s because he is.  Andrew knows where he is tonight, and they had an unspoken time to speak later tonight.

“Romero Malcolm sends his regards,” Andrew says.

Neil’s blood crystallises in his veins.  “What?”

All these years and Andrew still hates to repeat himself.  He doesn’t need to, anyway.

“Are you alright?” Neil demands, the words crowding out of his mouth as he forces his way through the crowd and out main doors, into the quieter entranceway.  “ _Andrew_.”

There’s a soft huff over the line, almost a laugh.  “He had a gun.  Rude asshole.”

Neil closes his eyes.  “Tell me how bad it is.”

“Not bad enough to stop me from making a phone call,” Andrew answers.  

Neil doesn’t need him to say, anyway.  He remembers Romero’s usual practice well enough, even after all these years – he and Lola were always the ones for dragging things out.  It’ll be a belly wound, the sort that bleeds out slow and inexorable.

Neil has seen it happen before.  His heart is dead in his chest.

“Jesus.  Please tell me you called for an ambulance first,” he begs.

“Yes.”  Now Andrew sounds pissed off.  “She wanted me to stay on the line but her nagging was making me bleed to death faster.”

“You’re not allowed to die,” Neil informs him.

“Better say something interesting, then.”

“Is he gone?”

“That’s not interesting, Neil.”

“Answer the question,” Neil snarls back.  The only thing worse than thinking of Andrew injured and alone in their apartment is imagining him with Romero standing over him still.

“He’s long gone,” Andrew replies.  “He didn’t drag it out.”

“We’re moving somewhere with better security,” Neil says.  Laila has emerged looking for him – he holds to phone to his chest to say to her, “I need to fly home.  Can you get me in the next empty seat out of here?”

He puts the phone back to his ear, watching her nod with a furrowed brow.  “What’s interesting?”

“Literally anything except moving apartments,” Andrew replies.  His hatred of the process is familiar to Neil at this point.  He hates not being able to find things after unpacking.  He’s going to have to put up with it – they’re going to go somewhere with a monitored entrance and a doorman, Neil’s paranoia about being watched be damned.

“Shall I describe what Laila is wearing?” Neil suggests.

“As if I care what she’s wearing.”  His voice is a shadow, but Neil can make out his distaste.

“I’ll tell her you said that,” Neil says.  “You already know what I’m wearing.”

Andrew had bought it for him.  It’s nice, even to Neil’s oblivious eye.  Pity he’s never going to get this sickly coating of fear-sweat out of it now.

Laila says, “Please don’t go down that road while I’m right here, Josten.”  When Neil glances to her, she holds up her phone and nods.  Despite the joke, her face is pale and serious.  Andrew, hearing her comment, makes a noise of amusement that cuts short.

“Keep pressure,” Neil mutters, unable to keep up the light-hearted chatter when he can hear Andrew’s pain.

“Easier said than done,” Andrew replies, breath hitching like he’s doing what Neil is asking.

“As if you ever took the easy road in your life,” Neil says, his voice warming with affection.  That steel-cored tenacity is his favourite thing about Andrew.

Andrew coughs, which turns into a muffled grunt halfway through.  “ _Ah_.”

It’s not the good kind of ‘ah’.  “Andrew.  Tell me what’s happening.”

“You don’t want to know,” he says.  He sounds loopy with blood loss, his voice fading on every second syllable.  “Neil-”

“Don’t you pass out on me,” Neil grinds out.  “I will be angry with you forever.  I’m not fucking joking, Andrew.”

“Neil,” he says, very quietly.  Neil waits for him to go on, but he doesn’t.

“Andrew,” he says.

Silence.  No sigh, no breathing, no murmur of Neil’s name.  

Nothing.  

“Andrew.  Andrew!”  The inside of Neil’s head is a scream.  His heart is jammed so tight in his throat that his voice breaks on it.  “ _Please_.”


	3. Chapter 3

Neil shuts down, afterwards.

Not his brain: that’s still moving at a hundred miles a minute. But everything else gets the plug pulled. His hands go from shaking to stillness. His heart rate falls. His breathing evens out. There’s only room for _this, then that, then that, then that_. It cuts off the _if-how-what-why-why-why_ that could be a deluge, one that would break him into pieces.

He’s going to pay for it later. Right now, it’s the only coping method he’s got.

He breaks every law in the book on the way to the airport. He gets on the plane. Whatever Laila told the airline to get him a seat has the attendants checking on him constantly. He has no idea what he says to them – he might just stare at them.

It’s not until he lands that he remembers the car is most likely still parked at the apartment. Andrew was meant to pick him up, he thinks absently. He gets in a cab. It’s been two hours since his phone rang. He gives directions to their building, his voice turned to stone.

The cops haven’t left yet. He was counting on that. They very obligingly tell him which hospital Andrew was taken to, and then press him for information that he won’t give them. He leaves with a promise to speak with them later and his car keys in hand, and drives to the closest hospital.

Things start to crack through once he arrives there. It’s not that they won’t tell him anything. His name is on every piece of paperwork Andrew has – right down to his fucking will. It’s that they don’t _know_ anything. They can only tell him that Andrew was taken in to have surgery, and that if Neil just sits and waits they’ll send someone in as soon as possible to speak with him.

Neil nods his acquiescence, tells them he’s going to go outside to smoke, and requests politely that they look out there for him if anything happens. He isn’t sure whether they’re this obliging with everyone or whether they recognise him, but they agree.

Too much time has always been the noose that Neil tries to hang himself with. He can’t wait without wanting to tear his skin off. He has a half-flat carton of cigarettes jammed into the pocket of his slacks – he’s still wearing the suit, though he ditched the jacket and tie on the backseat of the Maserati – but he doesn’t light up.

He calls Ichirou Moriyama, instead.

Even here, he’s got his fingers and money in the police department: he’s expecting to hear from Neil. Neil can tell that from the moment he answers the phone.

Neil is polite. He says _Lord_ and all the other pretty words that have kept him alive this long. He also says, “Did your dog slip its leash, or was it following commands?”

Most of the members Nathan’s circle are rotting behind bars or in the ground. Not all of them, though. Malcolm, with his sister and master dead, is meant to be another Moriyama slave.

“Malcolm isn’t my dog,” Ichirou replies, proving the belief that has kept Neil feeling safe for years utterly false. “He’s a stray.”

“Then you don’t have a reason to protest me muzzling him,” Neil says.

Ichirou agrees. Later, Neil will probably wonder what it is that he says that means Ichirou steps aside so easily. That he has a touch of amusement in his voice when he bids Neil goodbye. Right now, Neil doesn’t care.

The second number he calls is the Walker-Reynolds landline. Allison answers the phone, her voice an unintelligible rasp.

“Put Renee on,” Neil says, unable to summon the energy for niceties. She swears at him but does so, and Renee at least manages to sound awake.

He says, “I need you here.” That’s enough, after all these years. Allison has booked Renee a flight before she ends the call with a gentle, “I’ll see you soon, Neil.”

The third is his uncle, who he leaves a very clear message.

Before he can make the fourth, to Aaron, a concerned-looking man in scrubs appears through the door behind him. He tells Neil to come in so they can speak.

He says a lot of bad things, like ‘blood loss’ and ‘organ damage’. He also says ‘successful surgery’ and ‘fair prognosis’. Neil’s laser focus leaves him no room for deciphering them – the only thing he cares about is that they let him sit with Andrew even though he’s sedated. The doctor – Neil thinks he’s a doctor, anyway – says that Andrew’s patient notes indicated he might become stressed in a hospital environment, hence the sedation. They’re probably right.

Hospital rooms are horrible, but Andrew looks like Andrew, except for how he’d claw off his own arm before he wore anything like a surgical gown if he was awake. His face is unmarked – Neil’s eyes flick over him, imagining blood, and find nothing. There are just monitors everywhere, a few IVs, and him, still in the same way he sleeps every single night.

Neil’s control slips, just a little – _why, why, why_. He forces it back. He’ll wait right now, but he still has things to do.


	4. Chapter 4

When Neil goes back to the apartment, he nearly kills Special Agent Browning.  

It’s not intentional.  But Neil is on a knife-edge, and having someone speak suddenly from the darkened hallway behind him means his reaction is violent.

Browning ducks.  That’s lucky for him.

“Well,” Browning says, once Neil has removed a knife from the vicinity of his person.  “I don’t remember you being quite so scrappy.  Interesting choice there, by the way.”

“I don’t have a gun,” Neil replies, returning to his task of peeling the police tape of the apartment door.  “Otherwise I would have shoved that in your face instead.”

“That is a crime scene, you know,” Browning advises, though he doesn’t make any effort to stop Neil from unlocking the door and pushing inside.  Neil doesn’t slam the door on him in exchange.

“It doesn’t matter.  They already know who it was.  Otherwise you wouldn’t be here,” Neil said.  “Let me guess.  They would have got his face on camera.”

“Red flags all over the place,” Browning agreed.  “Your name plus his meant I got on the first flight out here.”

“Lucky me,” Neil says, and then makes a smooching noise.  Browning blinks, but the reason for the noise becomes clear when King appears with a mournful meow.  Neil strokes along his back and lets him lead them through to the kitchen.

Someone did a half-assed job of wiping blood off of the floor - it’s still everywhere, dried brown.  Neil is impossibly glad that he didn’t get past the front door when he came to pick up the car keys, because he isn’t sure he would have coped with it if he hadn’t seen Andrew alive with his own two eyes beforehand.  

It’s bad enough as is.  And Neil has seen plenty of blood in his lifetime.

“Nice,” Neil mutters, edging around it so he can put some food down for King.  Browning stands in the doorway to watch.

“This is all very domestic,” he comments.  “Not what I imagined at all.”

The attempted murder _wasn’t_ intentional, but Neil contemplates whether he might have to follow through anyway.

“It sounds like you’ve given it some thought,” he replies.  “I didn’t realise the FBI gave you so much spare time.  Maybe I should have applied for a job there.”

Browning laughs.  Neil doesn’t.  He says, “Remind me why you’re here, again?”

“I’m here for Malcolm,” Browning says.  “I presume I don’t have to warn you not to get involved in this.” 

“My partner is in hospital,” he says slowly, like Browning is particularly stupid, “because he was shot.  I’m here to pick up clothes, and then I’m going back there to be with him.  So consider me uninvolved.”

Browning’s gaze is piercing, but after a moment he nods.  “I’m sorry about Minyard.  I hear he’s doing well, though.”

“Yeah,” Neil says through his teeth.  “He’ll be fine.”

“I’m going to put a detail on your building,” Browning says, raising a hand to forestall Neil’s protest.  “There’s every chance that he’ll come back here for you.  I presume you’re invested in staying alive to the point where you don’t want that.”

“I have a friend coming to stay here.  Her name is Renee Walker and she can look after herself,” Neil says.  “But I’m sure she won’t say no to having some backup.”

There’s no recognition on Browning’s face at her name.  More fool him.  He says, “I’ll be in touch with news.”

“Can’t wait,” Neil says, looking out the kitchen window.  Out there, it’s a nice day, sun falling onto the counter.  The warmth of it can’t touch him.

“We’re going to get him, Josten,” Browning says after a moment, gruff but with a touch of genuine sympathy.  

“I hope so,” Neil replies, looking back to him.  “Get out of my apartment.”

Browning, obligingly, does so.  Neil hears him close the door on his way out.

Neil’s phone is ringing in his pocket.  It’s his uncle, and they have a very interesting conversation where Stuart calls him by the name of a dead man who maybe isn’t quite so dead after all.  There’s some satisfaction in breathing life back into him.

Behind him, there’s a squeak of a footstep in the doorway.  Renee’s smile, which had done nothing to thaw her eyes anyway, drops at the sight of the floor.  

Neil says, “Time to get to work.”


	5. Chapter 5

On Wednesday evening Neil Josten goes for a run.

He has a cap on and his hood pulled up.  It would be a subtle look if not for the name and number emblazoned on his back.  That being said, the locals are probably used to having sports stars in their midst.

Behind him, Mark – junior FBI agent assigned to Josten’s protective detail – pulls his maroon sedan out of its parking spot and starts to follow at a distance.  He doesn’t think it’s strange that Josten is out running when there’s someone who wants to kill him.  The guy’s boyfriend is still in hospital, and he’s been there all day every day.  Mark’s skin itches at the thought – he would be desperate enough to want the exercise, too.

Also, it’s not like he doesn’t know Mark is there.  He waves at the car when he sees it pull out and keeps jogging.  It’s kind of nice, seeing as Mark doesn’t usually get acknowledged.  He settles in at a steady pace on the empty street, eyes peeled.  He really doesn’t want international-Exy-sensation Neil Josten murdered on his watch.

 

* * *

 

Neil Josten is sitting in a dim and empty bar, tilting a tumbler a third full of whiskey backwards and forwards on the table.  His phone, next to it, is dark and quiet.  There’s a knife there, too: the same one he nearly gutted Browning with a few days ago.

The owners of this particular bar know exactly who he is: Neil has a distinctive face, one that has been extensively televised over the last few years.  Perils of being a professional athlete.  More than that, they also know who his father is.  That’s why he has the room to himself.

Or, not entirely to himself.  

“I heard you were looking for me.”

“You were meant to,” Neil replies.  Romero Malcolm looks like Neil remembers him from his freshman year, though greyer and more lined around the mouth and eyes.  “Looks like you’ve had a rough few years.  You’re getting old.”

“I don’t know.  The jobs aren’t as cushy as my old one, but they give me some leeway,” Malcolm says.  “How’s your boyfriend?”

“He picked up a nasty infection.  It’s unfortunate, but the doc says a course of antibiotics and he’ll be fine,” Neil replies.  “You’ll understand that I’m a little bit angry about it, though.”

Malcolm laughs.  “I bet.”

“Your issue is with me, remember?  You really should have left him out of this.”  Neil’s not laughing.  His voice, shut down, sounds precisely cold.

“He was so surprised,” Malcolm says, with a lick of bright and delighted sadism that reminds Neil of Lola.  “I’ve heard about him, you know.  They say he’s a killer - _dangerous_.  Didn’t look it when he was bleeding out on your floor, though.  Guess I’ll have to finish him off later, once I’m done with you.”

Neil doesn’t have a gun.  He wasn’t lying when he told Browning that, at least.  That doesn’t mean it’s a surprise when Malcolm pulls one on him, though.  He’s willing to bet it’s the same weapon that fired the bullet they took out of Andrew.  

Actually, he’s betting his life on it.  

He says, “Are you going to shoot me?”

“Yeah, Nathaniel,” Malcolm replies.  “I’m going to shoot you, too.  And I’m going to _enjoy_ it.”  


 

* * *

 

Mark doesn’t realise for a second that he’s lost Josten.

The guy picked a path that it would be easy for Mark to follow him on, lots of quiet suburban streets.  So Mark doesn’t notice that he’s gone until he’s driven halfway down the next street after turning round the corner.  

He pulls into an empty spot and cranes his neck trying to spot someone in a red hoodie.  Nothing – the street seems to be empty.

“Shit,” he says, not into the radio, and then, once he’s flicked it on, “Sir, I’ve lost him.”

SA Browning’s voice comes over the speaker with a crackle.  “What do you mean, you’ve lost him?”

“I mean he just vanished,” Mark replies.  “Should I-”

He just about startles out of his skin when someone taps politely on the driver-side window.  The face peering through is a mild-looking woman with rainbow-dyed hair peeking out from under a ball cap.  He winds the window down.

“Hi,” she says.  “I think you might be looking for a friend of mine.”

She’s wearing a red hoodie with Josten’s number of it.  

Looking her dead in the eye, Mark says into his radio, “Sir?  I think we’ve been had.”  


 

* * *

 

“Grudges are so petty,” Neil says, unmoving.  Just like his sister, Malcolm enjoys talking.  “I’m not sure what I did to earn yours.”

“I just really don’t like you,” Malcolm replies.  “I think you missed out on getting a bullet a few years back, and it’s time to put that to rights.”

He’s getting closer.  Neil picks up the tumbler, takes a sip.  It burns all the way down.

“You think you’re cool enough to pretend to be your father?  Because trust me, there’s no comparison.  You came here with a knife but I think there’s a saying about bringing one of those to a gun fight.”  The weapon in question is matte black and more threatening than Malcolm in his entirety.

“You’re probably right,” Neil replies, and pulls his arm back.

His aim is perfect.  He nails Malcolm right in the face.  The glass doesn’t smash, unfortunately, but he gets booze in his eyes.  While he’s scrubbing at his face, Neil hits him in the belly so hard with his shoulder that he goes down.

Raven defensive training. Years later, and it’s still coming in handy. If Riko weren’t long dead, Neil would have to thank him.

The gun skitters across the floor.  Neil’s fist collides with Malcolm’s face, driving his head back into the floorboards.  He gets in a second, but Malcolm grabs his wrist on the second and wrenches him off.

They scuffle.  Neil takes a shot to the jaw softened by the fact he’s too close to hit.  He’s landing more, but Malcolm has a weight and height advantage on him that means he can roll Neil off of him.

It’s pretty satisfying to see him spit blood, though.

Right up until Neil lets him get too close to the gun, and gets clubbed with it right in his chest.  It drives the air out of his lungs, leaving him gasping while Malcolm shakes off his weakened grip and climbs to his feet.  

From a low angle, the gun looks a hell of a lot more frightening.

There’s a frozen moment where they stare at each other, Neil halfway up on one elbow, Malcolm standing over him with blood on his chin and his grip absolutely unwavering, where Neil is sure that he’s about to actually get shot.  Not in the stomach, either – the barrel is pointed right between his eyes.

Then there’s a soft knock at the door.  Malcolm looks.  

In a instance of uncharacteristic and impressive foresight, Neil throws his arm over his face to shield his eyes.

Even with that, the flash grenade hurled through the crack in the door makes him see spots.  Not as much as Malcolm, who is totally blinded.  He spins back on Neil anyway, gun held out.

The door crashes open, and a whole team of people in black pour in.  Malcolm probably can’t see them, but he can hear them – he freezes, gun on Neil who hasn’t moved an inch, trying to blink his vision clear.

What he does see when he can again can’t be particularly encouraging.  With twelve M4 carbines held steady on him, Malcolm doesn’t have much of a choice but to put his hands in the air.  In seconds he’s disarmed and on his knees.

“You’re a fucking coward,” he spits at Neil as they put him in cuffs.  “Getting the cops to do your dirty work?”

“It’s not quite as satisfying as killing you, but it gets the job done,” Neil replies, picking himself up off of the floor and dusting off his jeans.  “I’m famous now.  So yeah, that means the cops do my dirty work.  I learned that trick from my father – I just didn’t have to pay these ones off.  Trust me, they’re happy to arrest you for free.”  

He picks up his phone from the table and taps the screen to make it light up, turning it to show Malcolm.  It’s still recording, has been for the last twenty minutes.  “Thanks for the confession.  Enjoy prison, asshole.”

He walks out, ignoring the way Malcolm snarls at him as he goes.

Browning, a bland suit amongst SWAT members and uniformed cops, stops him at the front door.  “Josten.  I thought you said you weren’t going to get involved.”

“Didn’t you hear?” Neil replies with a thin smile.  “I’m a great liar.”

“Did waiting not suit you?”

“You were taking too long,” Neil replies.  “My way was more efficient.”

“I should arrest you,” Browning says. 

“But you won’t. I just delivered you a criminal and a taped confession. All you had to do was turn up,” Neil says.  Renee is waiting for him at the edge of the crowd in Neil’s hoodie, and she’s not wearing handcuffs.  

She’s the one who walked into this bar a week ago, put a knife on the counter, and told the owners – dubiously aligned criminals themselves – exactly who she was looking for.  It was the kind of bait that someone like Malcolm was never going to resist.  

She’s also the one who wouldn’t let him just kill Malcolm.  Neil is probably going to owe her one for that.

“I won’t. Not this time,” Browning says.  His sounds pissed, terminally unimpressed perhaps, but not furious.  “Tomorrow morning, you’re giving a statement.  Tonight, you should get the hell out of my sight before I change my mind.”

Neil salutes him and leaves.  Renee falls into step with him halfway to the car, gently bumping him with her shoulder.

“Satisfied?” she asks, gentled again now that they’re done.

Neil makes a face.  “Close enough.”


	6. Chapter 6

Andrew comes up from unconsciousness like it’s deep water.  

First, tiny streaks of light, growing to a glow.  Then, all at once, sound and smell.  It feels like he gasps, but he thinks it probably comes out like a sigh.  He breathes in, deeply, lets it seep out slow.

“I’m angry with you,” says the voice he would know anywhere.  Andrew blinks his eyes open, squinting at the glare.  There’s a touch at his face – a hand, blocking the light.

“Are you?” he asks.  His voice grates in his throat.  “I’m not dead.  Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“I told you not to pass out,” Neil replies.  “You scared the shit out of me.  So thanks for that.”

“Unintentional.”  Andrew looks to him, now that his eyes have adjusted.   “Have you been doing something stupid?”

The hand he put up to shade Andrew’s face is scraped raw at the knuckles, and he has the shadow of a bruise under the stubble on his jaw.  He looks tired, too, fine lines drawn into the skin around his mouth from frowning.  He says, “Depends on your definition of ‘stupid’.”

Andrew is too tired for this.  “I mean reckless, impulsive, life-threatening…”

“You know, for a man who returned to consciousness thirty seconds ago, you’re awfully chatty,” Neil replies.  

“I’m high on painkillers,” Andrew says, which is the absolute truth.  He feels a little distant from his body, and things don’t hurt nearly as badly as they should.  Speaking of; he puts a hand gently to his side where he remembers gripping desperately, his fingers slipping as he got weaker and weaker to a soundtrack of Neil feigning calm.

Neil touches his wrist to stop him.  “You’re fine.  All your internal organs are where they should be.”

“We’ll match,” Andrew says.  Neil has a scar on the same side from the same kind of injury – smaller calibre bullet, maybe.

“Not quite,” Neil replies.  “My mom extracted mine with a barely-sterilised knife.  You got to have actual surgery for yours.  Your scar will end up much nicer.”

“Lucky me.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Neil replies.  “You got an infection.  You were in and out for a while there.  Do you remember?”

“No,” Andrew says.  As far as he can recall, his last memory is coming to in the back of an ambulance with Neil’s voice ringing in his ears, and then nothing until now.  “How long?”

“It’s Thursday morning,” Neil says.  He’s had plenty of time to get himself in trouble, then.  Malcolm broke into the apartment on Saturday night, while Neil was off being tortured in the name of team representation.

Andrew had been taken by surprise, the way he’d sworn he never would be again.  He’s getting tame, these days.  He says, “This is your fault, you know.”

Neil drops his head with a huffed laugh, all the way down to rest against the bed.  “Jesus fucking Christ.”

His voice is shattering.  His shoulders twitch once, and then still like he’s forcing them.

“Neil,” Andrew says, his tone his personal approximation of tender, by way of impatience.  “Stop that.”  He pushes his fingers into Neil’s hair, stroking through the curls, and then tugs lightly when he figures Neil has had enough time to feel sorry for himself.

His eyes are dry but reddened when he raises his face back to Andrew, his jaw stone.  He says, “Yes.  You’re right.”

Andrew scoffs.  “You’re an idiot.  Come here.”

Neil squawks when Andrew pushes himself up onto one elbow, but his hands at Andrew’s side and shoulder are gentle, steady.  He leans in, lets Andrew press their mouths together.  If Andrew exhales a little shakily against his lips, Neil doesn’t mention it – it turns out the narcotics work fine until he moves.  He can’t say that he regrets the ache, though.

“You’re making me soft,” Andrew says, with a scant quarter-inch between them.

Neil, breathlessly and probably without thought, replies, “Malcolm implied the same thing.”

Andrew pushes him back an inch further with the hand he had been using to pull him closer, making him blink in surprise.  “That answers my question about doing stupid things, then.”

“Here, just-” Neil attempts.  He’s holding up most of Andrew’s weight, but lowers him gently back to the bed.  Andrew hooks his fingers in his shirt, makes him stay right there, hunched over him.  Neil is always more honest at this distance.

“We baited him.  Then the Feds arrested him,” he explains.  There’s evidently a hell of a lot more to that story, like how the fuck the FBI are involved, but Andrew is capable of extrapolating even in his current condition.  He remembers the feds involved in Nathaniel Wesninski’s case – they were insistent, and surprisingly efficient for cops.  Clearly they haven’t changed over the last few years.

“We?”

“Renee helped.”  Of course she did.  “She’s been looking after King, too.”

“She’s good at multi-tasking that way,” Andrew says.  None of their other acquaintances are capable of bringing down a criminal while cat-sitting.  “You can’t have just baited him.  Not even _your_ mouth is capable of leaving bruises.”

“I hit him a few times,” Neil replies, meeting Andrew’s gaze head on.  “It was cathartic.”

“Not as much as killing him would have been.”  

Neil tilts his head.  “No.  But Renee said you’d be angry if I got jailed for murder.”

“My life would be so much easier,” Andrew comments.  He knows Neil, and so knows what it must have cost him to hold back.  He is, silently, impressed by the show of restraint.

Neil, meanwhile, is recovering, the colour leaching back into his face.  “I know you’d break me out.”

His faith is impressive.  Then again, this is the man who said _as if you ever took the easy road in your life_ like he believed so strongly in Andrew’s determination that he thought it alone could stop him bleeding to death.

They’re a matched set, in scars and wills of iron.  Andrew doesn’t dispute Neil’s comment – he kisses him again, instead.


End file.
